


we're little more than fools

by fearless_seas



Series: Thirteen Years II: before, between and after. [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Crushes, Domesticity, First Meetings, Intimacy, Jealousy, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25913890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearless_seas/pseuds/fearless_seas
Summary: “Why do you keep watching me?”, Jean turns his head towards him but Nelson doesn’t pull his gaze away. It was as though he didn’t care to be caught."You remind me of someone.”
Relationships: Alain Prost/Ayrton Senna, Jean Alesi/Gerhard Berger, Jean Alesi/Nelson Piquet, Nelson Piquet/Alain Prost
Series: Thirteen Years II: before, between and after. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880686
Comments: 16
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I thought of almost as a dream and then went into a feverish writing session for two days. Yes, this second Thirteen Year series is basically everything that doesn't fit in the original Alain POV series. This series will have tons of fics I have written that fit into this universe.
> 
> P.S. I fucking love Jean.

**________________________________**

**J U L Y of 1 9 8 9**

“Hey, kid!”

Two words. 

Jean spins his head around with surprise. For a moment, he couldn’t quite make out who was speaking to him.  Blinking into the sun, he shields his eyes with his hand. “What do you want?”, he blisters back quickly.  It's then that Jean’s vision clears. He knows the speaker--not personally. He knows him from the TV, from newspapers and magazines. By name and legacy alone, nothing else. He knows him from stories and word of mouth. 

Nelson Piquet. 

Before the first impression has already reached him, Jean comes to his own conclusions about him. He’s never been one to stay in his head for too long after all. 

Nelson crosses his arms, “Are you new or something?”

Jean takes a peek down at his blue overalls. The cuffs of his sleeves are already thick of dirt despite having just put them on. It is his first race after all. “Does it look like I’m headed to the clown show?”, Jean chuckles nervously.

Something hidden flickers at the back of Nelson’s eyes then. It was as though a dying spark had suddenly recognized something familiar within him. “If you are,” a slight smirk rises his upper lip, “Then you’re at the right place.”

There’s a minute of silence between them. It’s accompanied by the hum of the paddock lifting its energy before the race. “I wonder what my team will think about me talking to you,” Jean hums thoughtfully. He’s terrible at holding his tongue. 

“Why the hell do you care what everyone else thinks?”, Nelson waves him away as if he were as bothersome as a fly. 

“I don’t.” Jean doesn’t alter his tone. 

“Good,” Nelson nods, “You’re already doing better than most of the idiots here.” They always said Nelson never missed a beat when something’s on his mind. But there’s that same flicker in his eye Jean had noticed before, a pinch of melancholy that stands out from the liberation of his movements. 

“For a man who says a lot you sure do seem to think more.”

“Didn’t your parents ever beat you for speaking so freely?”

“No,” Jean grins loosely. A hint of mischief glimmers within him. “I may race under the French flag but I’m Italian to the core.”

“I can tell by the accent, kid,” Nelson sneers. 

Jean furrows his brow, “Why do you talk to me as if I’m constantly doubting you?” The smile is gone. Nelson’s face is blank as if his expression had never been there to begin with. The hustle growing louder, Jean senses that the conversation is over. As he leaves, he tosses a sentence over his shoulder like a stone: “And I’m twenty-five. Not a kid, old man.”

He’s gone before another word can be spoken. But he senses Nelson’s eyes on him as he goes.

The rumors about Piquet were true. It didn’t mean he didn’t like him any less. 

________________________________

Tyrrell. British Grand Prix, 1989. Jean’s second race. He’d spun off. He’s still wiping the tears from his face when he returns to his motorhome in the evening. Gerhard has his arm slung over Jean’s shoulders as they escape from the crowds. They’re both sweaty and dirty with grim but neither has had a problem with a little mess before. 

“Are you still crying?”, Gerhard jabs him in his side above his ribs. 

“Non, arretez,” Jean tries to conceal his massive sigh of defeat. 

“You’re too emotional.” Unquiting, Gerhard ruffles at his dark hair quickly which fans it all in front of Jean’s eyes. “Spinning off in only your second race, that’s pretty good…”

“Pretty?!”, Jean shouts, his mouth open, “It’d say it’s horrible!”

“We should get some celebratory champagne.”

“Why? Not like we got anything today.”

“You can celebrate your spin and I’ll drink away my own personal conquests.”

Jean rolls his eyes, his skin feels sore from rubbing his face too often. “You’re a drunk.”

“A happy one.”

Gerhard always was. 

The night felt infinite. 

________________________________

_ Nelson recognized something in you, didn’t he? Something that reminded him of someone else _ .

Around twelve, Jean stumbles himself towards his motorhome a little drunk. There’s a heavy feeling in his chest and sleep weighs at his eyelids. Just as before, Jean doesn’t recognize the man at first. Even more so, he doesn’t see Nelson because he’s acting so unlike any Nelson he’d ever heard of before. But it strikes his curiosity, that’s why he approaches him. 

“What’re you doing here?”, Jean straightens his words but they still come out slurred. 

Against the neighbouring motorhome, Nelson leans on his back. His eyes to the sky, he suddenly shifts them away at the sound of the younger man’s footsteps. A cigarette hangs lazily in between two fingers. “I have the same question for you,” he raises a brow to intimidate him but it seems inviting. 

Jean points over his shoulder, “I’m living here.”

“I guess we’re neighbors then,” Nelson mocks, a cloud of smoke tumbles from his lips into the open air. There’s a hint of excitement in his tone as if he were thankful not to be alone. Nelson was always a man surrounded by as many people as possible. Always a man with a joke on his tongue or a prank up his sleeve. A man with curses aplenty and cares a few. That’s what Jean had heard. 

“Why are you smoking?”

“What do you care?”, Nelson snaps. Sensing the hint of invitation from before, Jean leans in beside him and ignores his previous statement. His eyes trickle towards the heavens and it reminds him of the countryside in Auvignon. They slide shut and summer breeze rustles playfully at his hair. 

“Keeping secrets?”

“I don’t smoke,” Nelson took a drag through his thin laps. The ember stood out against the dark sky. 

“So, that’s not a cigarette.”

Nelson shrugged, “You know a little vice every now and again is a good thing. Don’t think I didn’t notice how you’re slurring your words.”

Jean can still taste the alcohol in his throat. At the end of the day, he’s never been particularly critical of himself. At least, not without reason. And himself he sees a someone with a blunt tongue and a quick wit. His mother always believed he cried too much but at the end of the day he is his father’s child. He can imagine them of his parents, cheering and hollering around the radio on the mantle all the way in little Auvignon.

Jean sees it too. Nelson observes him from the corner of his eye with a softness that Jean didn’t know he was capable of. 

“Why do you keep watching me?”, Jean turns his head towards him but Nelson doesn’t pull his gaze away. It was as though he didn’t care to be caught. 

He appears thoughtful. “You remind me of someone.”

“A friend?”, Jean respondes naively. 

Out of place, Nelson throws his head back and admits a short but loud laugh. “A friend?” he shakes his head with a bitterness lacing his words. “We’re little more than strangers now, I think."

“What happened?”

“A good fuck doesn’t stay only a good fuck for long,” Nelson chuckles. There is a slowness to his movements, as though he were savoring every moment until sunrise. 

“Are we strangers?”

The man looks to him again, his eyes falling over every inch of his body. But they stop on his eyes and Jean swallows hard. Nelson’s eyes were hazel but they could’ve been black as coals for all the stars the night reflected. 

At the end of this long, hard gaze, he says only: “No, we’re not.”

Jean grins, “Cool.”

“Cool?”

“Cool.” Jean holds out his hand and Nelson gives him a firm handshake in return. “Then what specifically reminds you of this friend?”

And Nelson doesn’t pull his arm away and he places the cigarette to his lips once again. He shrugs, “I don’t know, maybe it’s just your accent.” There was something more perked on his tongue. In a soft movement, his hand slowly slid towards Jean's elbow. 

Jean blames the alcohol, but he doesn’t move him away. He allows the touch to pull him closer until he could nearly taste smoke on his own lips. Without breaking eye contact, Jean stole the cigarette between Nelson’s fingers into his parted lips.  And suddenly there’s a hunger. A hunger that wrote itself at the corners of Nelson’s eyes. Despite this, it’s Jean who leans towards him first. It’s Jean who swallows in his smoke like air. Jean whose head spins with thought and what he leaves unsaid:

_ I burn holes I can never fill _ . 

Jean expected Nelson to shove him away, to punch him or spit in his face. But he doesn’t. Instead, Jean hankers something desperate in the way that Nelson touches him like he needs some small part of him. It feels vaguely sad, the way he doesn’t hesitate. A man of more years than his who knows:

_ I would live my life over again just to make the same unforgettable mistakes.  _

When they pull away for air, the coldness in Nelson’s eyes is gone and he shatters the distance once again within seconds. Jean scrapes his teeth over Nelson’s bottom lip. Fighting to regain control, Nelson grabs a fistful of dark hair, pulling Jean’s head back sharply. It makes Jean cry out, a moan dripping thickly past his lips. 

“I’m in control,” Nelson hisses, he tugs on the hair again leaving the carve of Jean’s neck open and vulnerable. Jean opens his mouth and then closes it again with a quick nod of defeat and anticipation. “Good boy, no need to open your pretty little mouth again.”

Jean swallows hard and the only sound that leaves him is a shaky sigh. Maybe it’s because he’s young, but he feels like there’s a piece of something he’s missing. It’s like when your parents say,  _ I’ll tell you when you’re older, _ but they never do. Eventually you find these pieces yourself. And he doesn’t want to run away. Nelson holds him like an object, speaks to him like a slut and it makes Jean feel somehow significant.  _ I’m a part of something even I don’t understand _ . But Nelson’s lips on the column of his throat are sweet and sharp like melting glass. Jean’s eyes tumble to the sky above and he’s a teenager once again. 

_ Do my eyes still sparkle like all that splendor above? _

Jean doesn’t remember how he got into Nelson’s motorhome. It was a quick momentary lapse of shock but it hits him as his back pounds onto the mattress. He mumbles, “Where am I?”

“You’ve been here before,” Nelson huffs, sliding a hand across the line of his throat and ripping his shirt over his head. 

“I haven’t.”

But Nelson isn’t speaking to  _ him _ . 

Jean is a child. A child who has to ask for a plate in the cabinet, a child whose father still has to teach him the names of the colors in the horizon. So he allows himself to be led like a sheep, played like a marionette in an unfamiliar room. The way that Nelson studies him is defenseless with greed--a toy in the hands of his own needs. 

Nelson undresses him with speed, tossing his clothes onto the floor. The moonlight tracks like snow over the muscles of his bare arms. His heart, pounding like a drum in his ears warms the cool sweat dripping across his temple. Jean’s back is pushed onto the small bed, the crown of head bumping against the wall as he comes down. Nelson doesn’t hesitate, hoisting himself above him and fitting his body into a yet understood silhouette. 

“You can get to it quicker,” Jean whispers, “I know what to do.”

Nelson’s hand clamps quickly over his mouth, “Don’t talk. Only say my name and nothing more.” His hand drags to the front of his legs where Jean’s cock lays already hard between his thighs. Jean admits a groan, somewhere mixed between pleasure and confusion, it ripples out. 

“Nelson…”

“Louder than that,” Nelson spreads him farther, slipping his last remaining article of clothing away. Jean’s fingernails dig into the flesh of Nelson’s shoulders and he is embarrassed by how much he wants it. Nelson strokes him quickly as he kicks his pants onto the carpet and reaches down to touch himself. 

“Do you want help?”, Jean feels stupid for asking. 

“What’d I say about talking?”, Nelson growled. In protest, Jean buried his face into his neck, his teeth grazing at the rough skin of his shoulder blade. Something in the way that he touches him makes Jean crumble, his eyes falling to the stars out the window as they spun around with blue light. And Jean doesn’t make a sound. 

Reaching over the edge of the bed, Nelson drags a bottle from his bag before preparing him with his fingers. The burn makes Jean flinch at the white pain radiating up his spine. But he moans, bucking his hips into Nelson’s palm eagerly. Jean squirms beneath his touch, sinking into the warm slosh in the pit of his stomach. And just as Jean doesn’t make a sound, Nelson’s eyes remain focused on his. When Nelson guides into him, it’s blunt and quick like the slice of a knife. Jean’s eyes prick with tears and he blinks them away as he curls a fist into the sheets of the bed. He whines, pitiful and almost weak with yearning. 

Out of the blue Nelson asks: “This is okay, yes?”, Nelson’s voice sounds oddly concerned. He continues thrusting into him at a pace, the watch on his left wrist glistening in the light. 

Jean nods, his mouth hanging open. And Nelson kisses him. Rough. Rough enough for Jean to taste a bit of blood through a tiny cut on his bottom lip. And Nelson’s searching for something, chasing a dream in every kiss, tumbling through the clouds towards something unreachable. Nelson rolls his hips, his breath is shallow and he draws his mouth away for a moment. A moment long enough to make Jean drag his chin towards him. He lays his palm flat on Nelson’s cheek, the pad of his thumb swiping softly over the line of his aquiline nose. Nelson shuts his eyes and leans his face into the interaction softly. His mouth presses into his palm. There’s an intimacy in it that Jean had never known before. 

Jean can’t control himself. “Merde,” he pants. 

Nelson pauses and Jean thinks he is going to be scolded again but instead he says, “Go on, talk to me.”

_ It’s your accent _ . 

“J’aime cela,” his voice is high in the back of his throat. Nelson lets out a strangled growl, pushing farther into him and breathing heavily. 

“More.”

“C’est si bon…”, Jean senses himself growing closer, heat coiling like hot ashes in his stomach. 

“More…”

“Je savais que je te voulais au moment où je t'ai vu,” Nelson shudders beneath his fingertips.

“I’m close,” Nelson strokes Jean’s cock with his hand and he resists the urge to finish. 

“Et je sais que tu me veux aussi…”

He finishes half on his stomach, half on the bed with Nelson forcing one final thrust before collapsing onto him. 

“Oh…. Alain….”

Jean shakes the white noise from his ears, his chest heaving for air. Silence. Knots and electricity. The tension in the air washes away like sand on the shore. Nelson holds him tight with a hand on the back of his neck. Jean wipes the corners of his eyes, rubbing circles into the cusp of Nelson’s back. His face buried in the crook of his neck, Nelson eventually draws his head up and on seeing Jean’s face, his features widen. 

_ Did you expect someone else? _

Nelson draws away, there’s a sobering quality to him. The melancholy has returned to him once more. 

“What?”, heat rises in Jean’s face, “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

Nelson perches himself on the end of the bed, swinging his feet slowly over the edge. He sinks his face into his hands but watches him through the cracks of his fingers. “You reminded me of someone,” he sighs. He looks dizzy. 

Jean feels empty and exhausted. The energy of the previous day has left his soul. It’s late.  _ In life you only get the same moment twice _ . Without being told, Jean slips from the bed and reaches for his clothes. “But you do know I’m not them,” he throws his shirt on, “You knew that without having to fuck me.”

Nelson doesn’t move. As he passes to leave Jean feels a hand rope off his wrist and tug him back. Their eyes meet. Nelson is below him on the bed with envy and hope mingling in all the colors of his iris. He lacks the control he so craves. They stare at one another for a long moment before Jean yanks his hand from his grasp and shuts the door behind him. 

A few minutes later, he collapses on the couch on his motorhome. A headache swims behind his forehead. He plays his thoughts out on the ceiling. Two parts of himself arguing like always.

“Suis-je stupide?”  _ Am I stupid? _

“No, certo che no.”  _ No of course I’m not _ .

The sound of his own voice brings him clarity. A bubble of emotion welling in his chest. 

“ Je suis trop vieux pour me sentir idiot.”  _ I’m too old to feel like an idiot _ .

Or, maybe. 

“Sono troppo giovane per conoscerlo meglio.” _I’m too young to know better_.

A distant part of him feels hurt, and perhaps, it’s that part that Nelson sees above all. 

________________________________

Jean thinks about Nelson all the way until the next race weekend. But when the week comes, he avoids him. The next time they see one another it’s midday on a Saturday. Jean approaches the parking lot and at the entrance Nelson stands pretending not to be waiting for him. 

“What do you want?”, Jean raises a brow. 

Nelson keeps his hands to himself. The late afternoon sun has turned his hair to amber. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

“I remember you just a few weeks ago praising me for not caring what other people think,” he smirks, “And now you actually do?”

Nelson frowns, his usual demeanor is absent. In its place is an ambience of solemnity. “I like you, kid,” it sounded as if it took effort for him to say that.

“So?”, Jean says, “I knew what I was doing.”

“I don’t think you did,” but Nelson doesn’t patronize him he's being sympathetic.

“Look,” Jean flicks the hair out of his eyes, “I hope you don’t think you hurt me or something.”

Nelson scoffs, “I wouldn’t care if I did.”

“If you don’t, then why are you stalking me?”

“I’m not,” Nelson frowns, his thick brows stitching together, “I’m just making sure you’re not running around telling your little buddies about this.”

“Who? Gerhard?”

“Sure, whatever, him. Anyone. It’s none of their business.”

“You didn’t hurt me.”

“I know.”

“I have complete control over what I’m doing.”

“Or so you think,” there’s a sincerity in his approach as if he were giving himself advice from the past. “You may think you have control,” he jabs the center of his chest, “But none of us do. Got that?”

_ Bacialo; Kiss him _ . 

_ Non, lui faire attendre; Make him wait. _

Jean grins with a mock salute from his hand. “Any other demands you have of me?”

“Stop asking so many questions.”

“No. You’re being rude to me.”

Nelson has that same glint in his eye as before. The one Jean saw weeks ago. One that says:  _ I know you somehow _ . Nelson waves him away, putting his cap on and starting towards his rental car, “Fine. Fuck if I care. Make the same mistakes as I did. I’ll see you around, kid.”

Jean watches him leave. 

_ Inseguilo; Chase him _ . 

_ Absolument pas; Absolutely not! _

Nelson is almost out of sight. 

_ Non ho niente da perdere; I don’t have anything to lose. _

_ Mais, je ne devrais pas mettre mes émotions dans quelque chose que je ne comprends pas; But I shouldn’t put my emotions into something I don’t understand. _

Jean has always listened to his Italian blood after all. He scampers into movement, trotting across the pavement. “Nelson!,” he calls. For a moment, the older man stops in his tracks and shoots a glance in his direction. “À qui dois-je tu rappeler?”,  _ who do I remind you of? _ Judging by his expression, Nelson doesn’t understand a word of it. 

“Let’s go,” Nelson gestures firmly. He appears somehow miserable behind his smile. He looks at Jean like he were a tragedy to come. And Jean follows without hesitation. 

He spends the next hours in Nelson’s hotel room, his back pressed to the wall and bruises beginning to form on the cusp of his hips. He buries his fingers into Nelson’s hair, winding and twisting the curls around his knuckle. When Nelson finishes, he murmurs a name a thousand times over like a prayer:

“Alain…”

Jean rolls away onto his back. Nelson felt guilty enough to lower his mouth onto his cock for a few minutes until he was done. That familiar silence fills the hollow of the room once again as if it had its own breathing life of its own. 

“What’s that name you’re always saying?”, Jean mutters breathlessly into the pillow. 

“Let’s keep away from questions.”

“I thought we weren’t strangers.”

“We aren’t,” Nelson wipes the sweat from his forehead, “But you don’t have to be nosy about me.”

“I’m not being nosy,” Jean huffs, “It’s only a question.” Not receiving an answer, Jean moves to pick up his clothing from the floor. 

Nelson perches himself up on an elbow, “You don’t have to do that.”

Jean snorts, “I have to sleep somewhere.”

“No, stupid,” Nelson gazes at him as if he deaf, “You don’t have to leave is what I mean.” Jean raises a brow in curiosity, placing his hands back on the bedspread and tossing a glance over his shoulder. “You should stay.”

It didn’t seem like a choice. 

Jean falls asleep that night in arms that hold him like he’s second best. And he’s always wanted nothing more than to win. 

_ Mi piace questo; I like this.  _


	2. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get deeper and Jean loses a connection he thought he'd always keep.

________________________________

A U G U S T of 1 9 8 9

On the pitwall, Jean chews his sandwich slowly with his overalls hanging around his waist. Almost like children, Gerhard and himself are taking turns seeing who could spit water the farthest. 

“Your turn,” Gerhard grins, stealing a bite of his lunch. Jean sticks out his tongue but doesn’t say a word in rebuttal. Gerhard frowns suddenly as if he took offense by his quietude. “You’re so silent lately, what is going on with you?”

“Huh?”, Jean makes a face, not meeting his eyes. “You’re not making any sense.”

“You’re around way less and never there when I come to your motorhome.”

“Oh,” he rubs the back of his neck, “I’ve been meeting with a lot of different people in the paddock, trying to build more connections.” Gerhard looks vaguely hurt, his eyes reflecting a mild rejection. Scanning his attention across the pitlane, he notices Nelson sauntering from the garage with a cheerful expression. Jean crumples his trash into his pocket, jumping off the wall onto the concrete. “I’ll see you later, alright?”

Gerhard doesn’t answer. He shrugs as though he is doubtful. 

_Gli manciamo; he misses us._

_Je sais; I know._

“Why are you so happy?”, Jean shoves in beside Nelson as he walks. 

Hanging his thumbs out of his pockets, Nelson smiles towards the sky. “Are you really going to judge me for my good mood?”

“No,” Jean chuckles, “You just look happy right now that’s all.”

“I’m always happy.”

_Not when your mouth is to my ear and someone else’s name dances on the syllables of your tongue…_

Ahead of them, Alain Prost stomps out of the McLaren garage, his usual calm atmosphere shattered as he throws his hands above his head. Nelson freezes in his place, his hand instinctively clinging to Jean’s elbow. 

“What’s wrong with you?”, Jean hisses as he collides with Nelson’s shoulder. 

Nelson’s mouth parts, “Come on, let’s keep going.”

But Alain wasn’t alone. In an instance, Nelson’s clench has turned to steel, his face bitter with sudden hatred. From out of the garage, Ayrton Senna emerged. The two men have a heated exchange, Ayrton ripping Alain’s shoulders and forcing him towards him. The shouting is inaudible but the tension swims like a ripple towards them. 

“Let’s get out of here,” and Nelson doesn’t wait for him. His previous good mood forgotten, Jean pauses in confusion before rushing to catch up with him. 

Jean grabs for his shoulder, digging his fingers into his shirt. “Nelson--”

“Fuck off!”, Nelson snaps, shoving his hand away. But the anger… it’s not hate--it’s _envy_. Envy deep with desire and pain. 

This time, Jean doesn’t follow him. And Jean remembers the hardened look in his eye: an un-aged pain that made him seem old. He peels his eyes down the paddock to where they'd been standing only moments before. Alone, Alain is postulated there, wringing his head with his hands on his hips. There’s a brief second, one where Alain scintillates all around him as if studying the science in the air. From afar, they notice one another. But they don’t acknowledge each other’s presence. Alain moves towards the garage, the lines of his forehead are peeled with anxiety. 

Alain.

That name. 

_C’est lui;. It’s him._

_Cosa hai visto negli occhi di Nelson?; What did you see in Nelson’s eyes?_

Envy. 

Jean knows envy too. He envies those with a strong memory, those who don’t make the same mistakes twice because they remember the consequences. Jean always ends up reliving them in one way or another.

The pieces came together for him there. 

________________________________

“Que voit-il en moi?”, _what is it he sees in me?_

In front of the mirror, Jean postulates bare skinned under the dim bathroom lights. 

“Est-ce mes cheveux?”, _is it my hair?_

On queue, he raises a hand and brushes the sweeping brown tufts off of his forehead. It’s dark as coffee. It’s surely long as Alain’s is, but certainly not as curly. His blue eyes blink back in the glass at him. Deep hooded lashes that drape over crystal color. They pierce like cold and melt like ice. There’s a dimple on his chin that he prefers to say is a scar. His skin is a deep shade of caramel that reminds him of the Italian countryside and all the trips with his father in shady summertime. They both always cried when they had to leave. 

Exiting the bathroom, Jean shuts off the light behind him and slides his back against the wall until he reaches the floor. Pulling his knees to his chest, he sets his head between them. The tears trail like pin-pricks across his cheeks. He cried silently for what seemed like hours, pressing his nails tightly into his upper arms. 

_Je pense trop avec mon coeur; I think too much with my heart._

_Ma a causa di quello sguardo quanto lontano sei arrivato; But because of that look how far you’ve come._

_Cela signifie que je suis assis par terre à cause de cela; That means I’m sitting on the floor because of it._

_No, sei seduto sul pavimento perché senti le cose troppo profondamente per il tuo bene; No, you’re sitting on the floor because you feel things too deeply for your own good._

“Jean?” The sudden sound startles him and he lifts his head up from his lap. Gerhard is peering at him from the doorway. “What the hell are you doing?”

Jean rubs his eyes and forces a smile, even as tears drip off of his chin. “I’m making myself feel better.”

Gerhard moves from the opposite end of the room and crouches on the carpet in front of him. He places a hand on his knee. “Are you okay?”, it sounds as though he were uncomfortable with seeing him so serious. Like a floodgate, Jean whimpers and rests his forehead on Gerhard’s chest as tears begin to dot the front of his shirt like raindrops. “Woah,” Gerhard stiffens slightly, awkwardly placing a hand on his shoulder to steady himself. “Come on, now you have to tell me.”

Jean lifts his head, “I can’t.”

“You can’t or you don’t want to? You’ve never kept anything to yourself before, why now?” Gerhard’s eyes are the same color as his. Blue. The color of most beautiful things in life. Jean doesn’t know why he’d never payed much mind to it before. “Remember that time we flipped the car?”

Jean perks his head up. The scent of burnt motor oil and rubber roll into his memory. “Of course, I remember. We nearly died.” 

“But if you think about it,” Gerhard nestles in beside him on the wall, “We would’ve died during our sexiest time. Imagine the picture they’re going to have at our funerals when we’re in our sixties or even our fifties. Gross!”

Jean chuckles and wipes his nose on his sleeve. “Says you!”, he knocks his shoulder, “My looks are only going to go up from here.”

And they both smile at nothing at all. 

“But seriously,” Gerhard is rarely a man to know the time for that, “What’s going on with you? This is quite the pathetic scene you’ve made for yourself.”

Jean thinks of the sadness in Nelson’s eyes. He also remembers his warning clear as day:

_You may think you have control. But none of us do._

Too tired to speak, he draws himself into Gerhard’s arms and slowly but surely falls asleep. 

________________________________

  
  


“You don’t hate him do you?”

It’s pitch black. Nelson has an arm around his waist as Jean traces the lines etched into his palms. 

“Who?”, Nelson respondes, his voice sounding suddenly very lucid. 

“Ayrton. I saw the way you tensed up when you saw him weeks ago.”

Nelson’s hand suddenly zips away from him. “Senna this, Senna that,” his jaw tightens, “It’s all anyone wants to talk about these days.” 

Jean sits himself up, “But you don’t hate him.”

“I don't care enough to hate anyone.”

“If you want Alain so bad, why aren’t you sleeping in his bed instead?”

Nelson blinks his attention towards the window. His features have gone soft. “He hates me,” he tries to sound carefree but his voice is pillowed with the opposite. It was as though the opinion of this man meant more to him than anything. 

“For a man who says he doesn’t care what anyone thinks, you sure do.”

“Oh come on,” Nelson rolls his eyes, “Everyone cares what people think of them! It’s just a matter of how much you allow it to affect you.”

Jean supposes that’s true. 

“I still think if you wanted him so badly, you’d be with him.”

Nelson only buries his nose into Jean’s hair, putting his arm back around his waist. “I used to be like you when I was younger.”

“How do you mean?”, Jean warms to his touch again. 

“I used to think everything was as simple as that.”

There’s excitement in deep waters. Don’t you think?

Before morning, Nelson speaks in his mother tongue into the vulnerable sunrise when he believes Jean is asleep. 

“Se ele me quisesse apenas metade do que eu queria…” _if he wanted me even only half as much as I want him._ “Eu ainda correria para ele…” _I’d still run to him._ His voice is muffled by exhaustion. “E se eu soubesse que ele iria embora pela primeira vez…”, _and if I knew how he’d leave the first time._ “Eu ainda faria isso de novo,” _I’d still do it again_ . “Don’t…”, he drifts away, “Don’t leave again…” _I still want you and only you_. 

Jean wonders if Nelson had hidden languages in himself too. That the different blood in him spoke from different tongues of thought and emotion as his did. 

_Cuore Italiano; Heart._

_Tête Francaise; Head._

Jean doesn’t like to make promises. But now is a time as good as any to begin. Even if it wasn’t really meant for him. 

________________________________

Post-qualifying, Jean nestled on the pit wall to read his printed stub of the results. The autumn wind sends him burrowing into the collar of his sweatshirt. 

“Give me a look at that,” Nelson snatches the paper from his grasp. 

“Thank you for asking for it,” Jean attempts to grab it back but gives up when he is pinched. Nelson holds the sheet away from his eyes in order to read it. “Are your eyes really that bad?”, Jean winces. 

“What can I say? God worked really hard on my dick and then forgot the rest,” Nelson winks and Jean shoves him away. His companion leaves a few minutes later to put on a coat against the autumn air. He is left on his own, sent deep within his own thoughts. 

“Would you mind if I saw?”

Jean recognizes the voice but he’s not familiar with it. Green eyes. A shock of curly, brown hair. Red overalls. Immediately, Jean shoves the paper towards him and their hands brush together. He thinks back to Ayrton’s hand on his waist weeks ago.

Alain smiles thankfully, his eyes panning for a moment over the results before passing them back. “We’ve never had a proper conversation, have we?”, and Alain, Jean notices, has a way of making you feel appreciated or recognized even after you’ve done nothing at all. 

“No, not at all,” Jean feels strangely uncomfortable. 

“Gathered any friends yet?”

He almost says, _what’s it to you_ , but he bites on his tongue. Jean liked to think he could call everyone a friend but at the end of the day there are few he clings to. “Berger, Palmer and…”, he shrugged, “Piquet too, I suppose.” He expected Alain to make a face, to stiffen with an almost likeness to fear just as Nelson had prior. 

But Alain only nodded as if that name did not matter to him at all. “A small but pleasant beginning.” His voice was like sweet honey. 

Maybe he just didn’t hear him correctly. “You were once close with Piquet, no?”, Jean pushes, his heartbeat thrumming in his eardrums. 

But Alain’s features hardly move. “Nelson? We’re friends I’d say. Entirely close? Not anymore. I’d say we used to be.” There’s a distant fondness there. “Be careful around him, he can do damage like a lamp to a naive moth if you’re not careful.”

Jean leaves abruptly without another word and without waiting for Nelson to return. 

In the evening, Jean hops onto the counter of the kitchen in Nelson’s hotel room. The other man was meddling with the heater, attempting to crank it up to mend the frigid atmosphere. 

“I spoke to Alain today.”

Nelson freezes and then shakes himself out as if he wanted to pretend he hadn’t. “Good for you,” he snorts, returning to his project. 

“He mentioned you.” That was a bit of a lie. 

“What--”, he cleared his throat, his lips are tight with curiosity and pride. “What the hell did he have to say?”

“Only the most horrible things you could imagine.”

“You little shit,” Nelson brushes the dust off his hands as he approaches. He hopped onto the counter beside him, wiping his sweaty palms on the thigh of his jeans. 

Jean waits until he’s settled. “He told me to be careful around you.”

“Careful?”, Nelson flinches, “What’d I ever do to him?”

“You’re asking me?”

“He probably just misses me.” And this time, both of them know that’s a lie. The worst part was seeing how very little Nelson altered Alain’s world and how much Alain truly formed Nelson’s… 

On the counter, Jean kisses him. A kiss to tell him he trusts his lips on his. A kiss to lick the misery off Nelson’s tongue. When he drew back Nelson only looked thankful. And Jean realized:

_Ti seguirei fino alla fine della terra; I would follow you to the end of the earth._

_Si vous me le permettez; If you allow me to._

________________________________

Jean wonders what Alain has that’s so alluring. 

Besides his charm. 

What after that does he have?

________________________________

  
  


“You seem happy these days.”

“That’s a strange thing to say,” Jean frowns over his poker cards. It's the first free evening after a long race weekend.

“Not happy,” Gerhard searches for a word, “Giddy! Like a child.”

Jean places his cards on the table face-up. “Are you just upset because we see each other less?”

Gerhard frowns and the rarity of this expression makes Jean shift himself away. “It would be nice to see you more," he mutters like gravel. 

“We’re both at the top now,” Jean digs his finger into a crack on the table. 

“You’re not supposed to show me your cards,” Gerhard sighs, his eyes are half shut with annoyance as he gestures to Jean's upturned cards. 

“I don’t want to play anymore.”

“What does us being at the top have to do with anything?”, Gerhard leans across the table. There’s a tension in the room, a tension between them of which has never existed before. “Are you saying we can’t be friends anymore?”

“No,” Jean feels bitter, “I’m saying that we have to just accept we have to see each other less.”

“But you have time for Piquet, don’t you?”

Jean’s eyes squint like daggers at the man across him. “I’m not talking about Nelson, I’m talking about you. He has nothing to do with this.”

“Really?”, Gerhard tosses his cards on the table, knocking a few poker chips to the floor. “Every race weekend you disappear into his room. When is the last time we’ve been able to spend an evening together like this? Like old times?”

Jean can’t recall the last time, “Months.”

“You disappear with Piquet so much I’d swear you two are fucking or something.” There’s a tunnel between silence and sound. Jean’s mouth bobs open and then closed again. Gerhard meets his gaze with his, as if forcing him into eye contact. A flicker, a spark of realization. Gerhard shoots to his feet, “You are?”

Jean is out of his chair in seconds, “It’s not what you think. It’s not like that!”

Gerhard crosses his arms, “So… you’re not fucking Piquet?” Jean remains wordless and caught as a fly in a web. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Gerhard falls back into his chair. The hairs on his arms are standing straight up as a trail of goosebumps fleck the coat of his skin. “This doesn’t change anything between us?”, Jean nibbles on his lip.

Gerhard looks hurt. Again. But this time, more hurt than Jean has ever seen him. “I guess the real question is, are _you_ going to let it?” His attention moves from his face to Jean’s upturned cards on the tabletop. “Four of clubs,” he points to a card, “unlucky.” His tone sounds small, distant. But before Jean can reach for his hand and stop him, he gestures at the second card. “A red two of jacks. Hidden enemy.” And with that, Gerhard rises from his seat. He grabs his coat from the hook and opens the door before him as he goes. Still on his feet, the blood pounds in Jean’s ears as Gerhard scans him from head to toe. 

“You know, Jean? Everyone always tells you to think with your head more. But you know your problem?”, Gerhard only sounds conquered, “Your problem isn’t that you _think_ with your heart too much--

“--Stop this.”

But he doesn’t. “Your problem is that you always _act_ with only _half_ of what your heart wants. Not the whole. ”

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?", Jean curls his fist and a blind rage reaches towards him from the dark crevices. 

"You do what is right. But not what is right for you."

"Well, maybe I'm tired of people pretending they know what's best for me."

"Goodbye, Jean."

The door slams shut. 

Jean sinks onto the couch. There's a pit of emptiness. 

_Are you going to let it?_

He wonders why he was ever so concerned with being called a man before when now he thinks he’s too young to see so much hurt in other people’s eyes. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t let the tears fall. 

________________________________

S E P T E M B E R of 1989

Jean peers across the room at Nelson. An odd flicker of affection flushes through him. But he didn’t want to kiss him. It was Nelson… that and nothing more. Nelson's hand traces through the leaflets of a tattered notebook, a pencil moving across the pages with appreciation. 

Jean flips his book onto the arm of the chair, approaching Nelson at the coffee table. “What’re you drawing?”, he leans over his shoulder. 

Nelson doesn’t recess his activity but he does acknowledge his presence, “Naked women.” He wasn’t wrong.

“I didn’t know you could draw,” Jean hooks his chin over his shoulder. 

At this, Nelson places the pencil down and shuts the notebook closed on itself. He settles comfortably in his touch. “It’s not like I keep it a mystery. The only thing I had to do in Brazil as a kid was go to the track, draw or jack off,” he chuckles bluntly. 

“No friends?”, Jean was always fixing cars with his father, chasing his siblings through the creek or dusting himself up with friends. 

This seemed like a sore spot. “Of course I had friends!”, he protests, crossing his arms. He seems vaguely offended. 

“No you didn’t,” Jean smirks triumphantly. 

“Okay,” Nelson throws his hands up, “I didn’t have a lot. I was a scrawny kid and my dad always had me buried in tennis lessons. In the free time where he wasn’t hovering over me like a hawk I would be at the track an he never liked that. I made him and my mother believe I was out doing normal things… banging girls or getting drunk when the reason I _really_ was returning at four am was because early morning was the only time the track was empty.”

Jean slides his hands around Nelson’s abdomen, his chest pressing to his back. “At least you got something out of it, that’s pretty obvious.”

“Three world championships?”, Nelson scoffs, “Two of those times where I didn’t have the strongest car on the grid? That’s proving _something_.”

Jean buries his nose into Nelson’s hair. He carried the scent of motor oil, spices and leather. There was something stunning wrapped in his mystery. 

_Il se soucie des choses profondes personne ne comprendra jamais; He cares about things deep inside no one will ever understand._

_Non è tutto parte del divertimento?; But isn’t that all part of the fun?_

________________________________

Jean’s breath is just calming down and the beads of sweat on his back have begun to cool when he blurts out the very think that has been abusing his mind for months.

“I think I’m in love with you.” 

Nelson only snorts at this statement as though it were a lazy joke but upon seeing the firmness of Jean’s face, he stops. “No,” Nelson flips onto his side to face the window. The springs of the old mattress creak underneath his weight. “You’re not.” 

Jean wasn’t expecting this reaction from him. _Crawl to me, say that you love me too_. He sits up on the bed, tugging the sheets up to his chest as he arches against the backboard. Maybe he had expected the sky to open up or for Nelson to kiss the words from his lips. But he doesn’t. The air feels exactly as it had moments before. 

“Yes,” Jean says angrily, “I do.”

“You _think_ you are, or you _are_?”

A pregnant pause accompanies this question. A million phrases bounce around in Jean’s head. “I am, I know it,” he sounds confident but on the inside his ribs rattle like a leaf. 

Again, Nelson laughs as if he’d made another joke, “Jean, you’re not in love with me.”

Roughly, Jean reaches forward and forces Nelson onto his back to face him. “Why on earth would you say that?”, he growls, “Someone tells you that they love you and you just laugh? You’re sick.”

Nelson rolls his eyes, “I mean what I said.” He shifts himself closer, “You’re not in love with me.”

“How the hell do you know?”

“If you were, it wouldn’t be so easy for you to say it the first time.”

Nelson has a point. The calmness that he speaks makes Jean believe him. “Fine,” Jean’s shoulders sink, “I’m not in love with you.”

“See? I told you. Nobody ever listens to me.” Typical Piquet. Always searching for an easy victory. 

“Can I at least still say it? I like it.”

“You like… saying it… even though you don’t mean it…”, Nelson treats this like he were five years old and had just asked to drive the family car. 

“Yes,” Jean nods firmly. 

“Uh… sure?”, Nelson makes a face. His sharp features melt together into confusion. 

“I love you.”

Nelson laughs again, but it’s soft with endearment. “I love you too, go to sleep now.” But then he kisses his lips, loose and un-searching as if acknowledging more than just that small piece of his that also belonged to someone else...

Before falling into darkness, Jean laces their hands together. And all this, them together, gave them both what they always truly wanted; because we as humans roam around desperately in search of closeness. Anything in this world that can make us feel even only a little less alone. 

What was that he wanted to say all those months ago?

Oh, yes. 

_Mi piace questo; I like this._

________________________________

When Nelson holds him, Jean thinks:

_Un giorno, voglio essere trattenuto da un altro esattamente così. Ma per davvero; One day, I want to be held by another exactly like that. But for real._

_Pourquoi je ne sors pas pour le trouver?; Why don’t I go out and find it?_

There’s a constellation of freckles that write themselves across Nelson’s shoulders. He finds himself tracing them often, drawing them together. 

“What hidden meaning to do you conceal here?”

“What?”, Nelson mumbles. 

Jean only shakes his head, “Nothing.”

 _Nothing but everything_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I think it accidentally came out a few days later than it was supposed to, my bad. If you enjoyed please leave a comment and support your content creators. I reply to everyone and I value them even if they're only a few words. Thank you so much! My Tumblr is @pieregasly


	3. Chapter III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything falls apart and comes together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sad this fic is coming to an end :( It was one of my favorite fics to write in a long, long time. Considering I wrote it all in like two days... yeah. I hope you guys enjoy this final chapter :)

________________________________

N O V E M B E R of 1 9 8 9

Jean could count his first season as a success--and he does. But as with all racing drivers, there is a burn in him for more. In the parking lot, Jean moves to approach Nelson who is pulling the keys to his car out of his pocket. But something makes him pause in his tracks. Or, in this case, someone. Alain. The two men are in a heated discussion, Alain is pale faced and Nelson holds himself at a visible distance. Before Jean can even speak, Alain has pulled open the car door and Nelson slips inside after him reluctantly. And with that, they’re gone. Some small part of Jean trembles. Without a word to anyone, he returns to his motorhome and his eyes trace pictures on the ceiling until night fall. 

Of all people, he imagines Gerhard. The Gerhard he hasn’t spoken to in a while, the Gerhard he gives quick nods to when he passes him in the paddock. He remembers his face as he slammed the door or his arm on his shoulders whenever he cried. And suddenly… he feels more homesick than he ever has before. A craving that fills his core; a craving for the future and whatever unknown may lay before him. 

Jean hadn’t realized he had fallen asleep until a loud rapping on his flimsy door pulls him up. Through the darkness, he rubs his eyes and flicks on his light. Before he can tell whoever it is to fuck off, it’s Nelson who barrels into his door. Blinking at the unexpected sight, Jean hesitates to shut the door behind him.

“Nelson? What’re you doing here?” Nelson looks… he looks scared. More scared than Jean has ever seen a man before. But it’s not fear, its petrification. “Merde, what happened to you?”, Jean watches him from the corner as he paces up and down the small area. Wound up. He is acting like a small toy someone had wound up. Nelson’s shirt is ruffled as if he’d hardly given himself time to dress before speeding here. He runs a hand through his messy hair, the lines of his forehead swimming with thought.

“How’re you doing?”, the question comes unexpectedly. 

“You’ve never asked me that before,” Jean’s voice laces with worry. 

“Just answer the question before I strangle someone.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”, Nelson gives him a quick, stern look and Jean throws his palms up in defense. “I was doing great sleeping until you barged in.” 

“Good.” Nelson finally sits down on the couch with care, his nails in his mouth and his body quivering. “Very good…”

“Come on, Nelson,” Jean sighs, “What is this all about? Why are you shaking?” He recalls the evening hours before, Nelson and Alain in the parking lot. He’d felt the fear then drifting in the air somehow. “Does this have to do with Alain?” At the sound of a name, Nelson glances at him. His eyes are as black as the first night they truly spoke. It was under a glittering abyss of stars, ones that weaved and bent across the sky like sea waves. “Did you two speak or…”, _something more_. 

“We…”, Nelson lets his voice trail away. 

Jean senses something distant sink between his ribs. “So you two had sex again,” he purses his lips. 

“It’s not like it was only the second time we ever had. We had something for many years until…”

Until Ayrton. 

“Doesn’t seem like that to Alain,” a flicker of rage trembles within him, “When I spoke to him he barely even flinched at your name. Said you guys were little more than close friends.”

Nelson frowns, “We weren’t more than that.”

“Then why do you let him affect you so much?”

Nelson sighs and does the same motion he did back in July that first night. He places his head into his hands and shuts his eyes. “Do you remember what I said to you? In the parking lot, before our second time.” Jean doesn’t, it used to be perfect in his mind like a picture. “I told you that with all things, you may think you have control--but you don’t. None of us have control over our emotions. No matter how much we make fools of ourselves that we can just toss them away.”

“I’ll ask you again,” Jean places a hand on his knee, “Why do you let it affect you?”

_You know you can’t have someone so you decide you want them even more. You regrow a forest in your heart from cut down trees only for the roots to still bleed the same poison as before._

Nelson looks at him like there’s a part of him he needs. He leans into his touch, laying his cheek on the back of Jean's hand and shutting his eyes. Jean never asks him what happened only because he doesn’t want to feel any more pity for him than he already does. Nelson sleeps the night in his bed, laying on his stomach in all of his clothes. The way he put it before passing out: something happened in that hotel room with Alain he doesn’t want to relive. 

Jean runs his fingers through Nelson’s hair until morning. And the universe felt easy… all so easy. 

________________________________

“Jean.”

“Gerhard.”

They shake hands. It’s been a while. 

“Congratulations on surviving your first season.”

“I could say that same to you. A move to McLaren is big.”

The energy isn’t the same as before. 

Gerhard struggles for words, reaching for playful banter. “Have any plans for the winter?”

“Testing, team communication, family, the sea.”

“It’s winter,” Gerhard shuffles the toe of his shoe into the dirt, “The time for snow and cold not the Italian countryside.” Jean would’ve argued with him like an old friend. 

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy freezing your ass off in Austria,” Jean smiles weakly. 

“Speaking of which,” Gerhard chews his inner cheek. “You should come for a visit. Escape for a while from all… well, all this,” he gestures around them vaguely. The paddock has winded down. It’s the end of the season and the ambience buzzes with desensitized life. 

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I was planning to spend the winter with Piquet. After that I’ll see my family and I head to England before January comes for the factory.”

“Still no time me me I see,” Gerhard’s grin is bitter. 

“I’m sorry, maybe we could organize something if I call you.”

“Sure. You’ll call me.”

“I’ll call,” Jean shoots back. 

Gerhard seems doubtful. He had a right to be. Jean remembers the cards. _Hidden enemy_ , Gerhard had foretold. 

_Je suis mon pire ennemi_ ; I am my worst enemy. 

Jean supposes his fortune telling was true. But he’ll never learn from his mistakes. 

“I should go,” Gerhard peeks at his watch, “People to see, places to be.” And it doesn’t seem like he truly wants to leave. But Jean doesn’t move to stop him. “I’ll see you… sometime. Take care of yourself.”

“You too.” Jean stands there for a moment alone. He feels as though he were watching a piece of himself walk away. 

And, maybe, he was. 

________________________________

D E C E M B E R of 1 9 8 9

The snowflakes were heavy on Nelson’s thick eyelashes. For two weeks the weather silked its way across their bones. It’s pitch dark but streetlamps ignite a pathway of incandescent light on the travel back to their sleepy inn. They laugh as Nelson slips over ice and Jean drags him along across the curb. 

“You’re going to kill me, you stupid piece of shit,” Nelson growls, his voice wavering as he stares cautiously at a pathway of glistening ice under his feet. 

“Trust me.” Jean laces their fingers together. Their touch is like fire, a breath of chilled wind across their veins that slowly crept towards their spines. 

For once, Nelson does. 

They tumble a few minutes later into a snowbank, the light playing symphonies on the colors in Nelson’s cheeks. On top of him, Jean brushes the hair off of Nelson’s forehead and his eyes follow him as if expecting him to bite into his neck. Without warning, Nelson snaps his head up from the snow and kisses him. The paper-thin crack of his lips are the nip of a sweet knife on his own. He places a hand on the back of his neck, drawing him closer and warming the cold of his skin. Everything around them became beautiful. 

Returning to the room, the door slams shut and almost immediately Jean’s back is pressed to it. A moan rises in his mouth and Nelson sucks it from his throat as though it were air. But it doesn’t move to the bed. Nelson strips him by the entrance, not even waiting to see if the door was locked. He doesn’t tease him, he doesn’t make him wait, Nelson only brushes his teeth over his neck and pushes into him. A shard of moonlight pierces a line of light across Jean’s eyes and he stares into it as his neck falls back against the door. 

“Nelson…”, he groans, his muscles moving like gears under his skin. After a moment, the speed stops and Jean pries his eyes open in confusion. Nelson is staring into them. There’s a fondness in his expression. A fondness for him and him alone. 

“Você tem olhos bonitos,” he stammers. 

“Why the hell did you stop?”, Jean whines, reaching forward to stroke himself. 

“I said you have pretty eyes,” and without justifying what he said, Nelson begins to thrust into him again. He pretended as if he had never said it at all. 

They’re blue. Not green. 

His eyes. Not anyone else’s. 

Jean cracks the window open before crawling into bed that night. They’d both just left the shower and frigid night air chills the room. It has begun to snow again. Jean never saw a lot of snow when he was a child but Nelson said he enjoyed skiing. Jean stuffs that somewhere in his memory even though he knows he’ll eventually forget. 

“Are you sure I’m not in love with you?”, Jean inquires. 

“Yes,” Nelson doesn’t hesitate, “You’re just a little young, that’s all. But it’s very hard not to love me as you can see.”

Jean slugs him in the shoulder sharply. “You said it wouldn’t be easy, but what if I’m only more bold than others?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, kid,” Nelson places his hands behind his head, the muscle of his arms are slick with perspiration. 

“Are you in love with me?”

“Nope.”

“How do I know!”, Jean shakes his head, “Maybe you just have a difficult time saying it.”

“Listen, I know what it is. I know what it’s like.”

“Is it because of Alain?”

“Mary of god, you and your ridiculous questions,” Nelson grumbles. But he doesn't sound bitter, he sounds reflective like a man looking back on his long life. 

“What if I do love you?”

“You wouldn’t question it.”

Jean shakes his head solemnly, “I don’t know anything about this anymore. You’ve confused me.”

“Look, Jean,” Nelson sits up suddenly and cups his hands in his, his face is sharp. “You would know, you wouldn’t question it and you certainly wouldn’t say _I think I’m in love with you_. I know I’m not the last thing you think about before you go to sleep or the first thing when you wake up.” Jean doesn’t stop him. “It makes you sick. Love. It makes you feel sick to your fucking stomach every time they’re around. Enough that you have to force yourself not to throw up because you feel so fucking terrified at the thought of what you feel and what they could do to you.” There are tears brimming his eyes and it makes Jean’s heart whimper. “And you can never hate them. No matter what they do to you or how much they hurt you, you can never hate them. Like it or not, you fall in love with every part of them, even the ones you don’t like, even the ones you have to force yourself to find in others.” His hands are trembling and he blinks the tears away. “In that moment, when you are with them, you can never imagine yourself with anyone else. And when they’re gone, they become everything around you. They are everything around you. It’s almost like you can’t fucking breathe.” He takes a long and shaky inhale. “Do you understand?”

For a long moment, Jean breathes in his words. He breathes them in for the rest of time. 

“I understand.” His eyes fall to the snowfall. “It’s snowing.”

“I see that."

The homesickness has returned. It’s accompanied by a sudden flinch of epiphany. 

_You can never hate them_. 

Jean remembers the last winter that he spent. It was with Gerhard. He felt safer than he ever had before. For now, the evening night is blue across their sheets. Jean turn onto his side and reaches out to stroke the beam of light with the tip of his finger. It feels familiar as if he’d seen it before. The night is harsh on the blue darkness. Eventually, it drips like thick honey from his grasp and it’s gone as the sun rises. 

________________________________

M A R C H of 1 9 9 0

Sometimes, that small part of him imagines what could’ve been. 

America. 1990. Season opener. 

Jean squeals the door of Nelson’s motorhome open, a now forgotten idea trickling half off his lips. Nelson’s not alone. From the couch, Alain leaps away unexpectedly, his hands are still latched to Nelson’s thighs. But the very first thing that Nelson does is clutch himself to Alain’s shirt as if desperately making sure he wouldn’t scamper off. 

“I should go,” Alain swipes Nelson’s hold on him and stands to his feet. His face is flushed with color. 

“No,” it takes Jean every ounce of himself to say that. “You should stay. I’ll leave.” He exits through the still parted door, closing it shut. The spring wind cuts across his cheeks. 

“Wait!”, Nelson calls after him from the top steps. 

Jean thinks to ignore him, but he doesn’t. He retraces the steps he'd taken and walks back towards him. And something within him screams:

_Partir et ne pas revenir; Leave to do not turn back._

He’s always been a poor listener. 

“You should go back inside,” Jean is blank-faced, “He’s in there waiting for you.”

If Nelson is surprised at his actions, he doesn’t say it. “But--”

Jean cuts him off, “You got what you wanted, didn’t you? Now, go.” _Don’t be a coward_. Jean knows there’s that soft piece of Nelson, the one he heard in Portuguese under that vulnerable sunrise. The one that spoke with kindness and frailty. _Don’t leave… please, don’t leave again,_ it had said. So he doesn’t. But he doesn’t make Nelson stay either. 

“It’s not like we were…”

“We weren’t,” Jean grinds his teeth as if restraining himself, “We weren’t ever… together. Not like that.”

Nelson grins from the top step. It looks apologetic, miserable and unflinching. But there’s a gratitude written into the dimples on his chin. 

“You know,” Nelson tilts his head, “We’re little more than fools you and I. Always playing the same stupid games.”

Jean doesn’t wait around to ask what that means. 

________________________________

_“Hello?”_

“Gerhard?”

There’s a pause on the other line. _“...Jean?”_

“Yeah,” he holds back a sob, “It’s me. Is this a bad time?

_“No, no, of course not, not at all,”_ Gerhard clears his throat, _“Is there… is there something you need?”_

“Can I see you?”

_“It’s getting little late right now--”_

“When have you ever shied away from midnight adventures?”

_“Never.”_ He sighs in defeat. _“Where can I meet you?”_

An hour later they’re seated on the hood of Jean’s rental car. The horizon is a shade of pale pink light. 

“I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?”

“For dismissing you off for a while,” he curls his knees to his chest, “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with us being at the top now?”, Gerhard must be teasing him. 

“No,” Jean reasaures, “That was complete bullshit. I was just being difficult and stupid.”

Gerhard seems satisfied. “I always liked spring,” he plucks at a bit of pollen off of his sweater. Jean does too, but he doesn't say. When Gerhard turns away, Jean watches him from the corner of his eye with interest. It felt like finding something lost you thought you’d never get back. It also felt peaceful and, above all, he felt secure in it. “Do you mind if I ask something?”, the silence is broken. 

“Ask what?”

“Why Nelson? What was it about him?”

“We’re friends. Close friends,” Jean shrugs, “I can learn a lot from him. I have learned a lot from him.”

“Am I still up there?”, Gerhard chuckles. His smile is soft and admirable. 

“At the top of the list. Always.”

Jean shoves him playfully and he nearly tumbles off the hood of the car. The blue light of Gerhard’s eyes twinkled like crystal balls. 

_And this? Did your cards foresee this as well?_

________________________________

A P R I L of 1 9 9 0

“What’re you drawing now?”, Jean leans over Nelson’s shoulder to inspect. 

Unlike any time before, Nelson slaps a hand to the paper to cover it. Jean swore he saw a face, a face that peaked out from the pages. The same face that glanced towards him when he barged into Nelson’s motorhome. 

“You’re being secretive,” Jean puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“You’ve seen lots of my stuff before!”, Nelson closes the cover, “You have probably seen more than anybody else before.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I see you’re finally hanging around with that new fellow on McLaren again.”

“Gerhard?”

“Whatever his name is,” Nelson dismisses him, “I don’t care. I always thought he was a little… a little fruity.”

Jean raises a brow high on his forehead, “Fruity?”

“You know…”, Nelson bops his head to the side and back again, “Swings for the other team a little too hard?”

“And what do you define as a little too hard?”

“Nothing,” he chuckles, “That’s just what I thought. You would know better than I would.” Jean had never thought about it before. Gerhard had had girlfriends before. Or “girlfriends” as Jean coined them because there were often too many for him to keep count of. There was not point in keeping track anyways because they switched far too frequently. 

“He’s my closest friend.”

Nelson peers at him long and hard as though he were picking apart his bones. “I like you, kid.” It’s oddly reminiscent. 

“I like you too, old man.”

For the first time in a long time, Jean doesn’t allow himself to restrain the tears that night. This time, they’re filled with relief. 

________________________________

Across the pitland, Jean looks up, shielding his eyes from the sun. Alain and Nelson are talking with their backs to the track like old friends. Occasionally, they laugh, but Alain never looks directly at him. There’s a moment, timeless and fulfilling that’s short and long forgotten seconds later. A sound up the paddock draws Alain’s eyes away and he turns his head. But Nelson doesn’t move, his gaze remains locked on Alain’s silhouette beside him. He peered towards him like he hadn’t seen the sunlight in a long time and he was just waking up to it in his eyes. 

Nelson’s words come back to him. 

_You fall in love with every part of them, even the ones you don’t like, even the ones you have to force yourself to find in others._

And Jean realizes: 

_Voglio essere visto così un giorno; I want to be seen like that one day._

For once, his head agrees. 

_Alors qu'est-ce que j'attends?; So what am I waiting for?_

A ripples moves through his gut as if there were a finger pointing towards something. 

_In that moment, when you are with them, you can ever imagine yourself with anyone else._

Gerhard grins when he approaches. It’s the same thing he saw earlier: the brightness of the sun. 

“Hey, Jean--”

“Do you want to get dinner with me tonight?”

“Sure," Gerhard dusts off his hands, "Do you want to sit down somewhere or just pick something up?”

“No,” Jean swallows, “Do you want to have dinner with me?”

Gerhard looks confused, “Dinner?” His eyes suddenly widened, “Oh, dinner. Wait are you… asking me…”

“Yes.” Jean nods without hesitations. 

“Will I finally get to see you dress up?”, the smile hasn’t faded. 

“Only if I get the chance to destroy you with my fashion choices.”

“Oh, Jean,” Gerhard shakes his head softly, “When have I ever lost a battle with you?”

“Do you want me to bring up the points from last year?”

“You’re on.”

But Jean didn’t feel sick. He felt safe. And that was all that mattered to him. His eyes fall to the clouds above the racetrack. 

“I like spring too.”

“I know, Jean.”

Gerhard’s eyes observed the same scene. For a moment, their hands brushed and neither shifted away. When he believed nobody was looking, Jean curled his finger over the cuff of Gerhard’s sleeve. He locked it in his touch. The grip between them tightened. Gerhard didn’t move but from the corner of his eye, he studied him. And it felt exactly how he always wanted to be looked at. 

All was right. 

_Mi piace questo; I like this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! If you enjoyed or have any questions, please comment below. Support your creators! If you have any requests or another else, my Tumblr is @pierregasly. Thank you once again!

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you guys enjoyed! I'll be back in twenty days for the next publication :) If you enjoyed, please comment and support your creators! Let me know what you think of Jean! If you have anything else my Tumblr is @pieregasly


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